Coming Back
by Sunny33
Summary: We'll stick to the plan," Dean tells him. But it's hard...waiting for Sam to come back. Post 4.22 Sam Whump and Protective Dean. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**Coming Back**

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When Sam opened his eyes, he was back in the panic room again.

And he felt pain. His back, his legs, his shoulders...man, even his teeth. He licked his lips. Dried blood at the corner of his mouth, skinned knuckles on both hands and a fat lip. Good times.

He searched his mind to ascertain just what this was. A nightmare? Some freakish leap back in time? He closed his eyes against the relentless pounding in his head, trying to orientate himself.

No. He remembered now. This was the plan. This was what they'd discussed. The agreement.

He lifted his head and scanned the room. And there was Dean. Sitting on a blanket, back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. A newspaper on his knee. A relaxed repose.

"Still here?" Sam rasped. His throat was wrecked. The silence pricked his fears for a beat. Maybe this wasn't him. Maybe he'd left the room. Gone to eat. To sleep. To talk with Bobby.

"As always," he answered quietly and Sam's shoulders relaxed. This Dean was real.

He lifted a trembling hand towards his mouth.

"You smacked your face against the door...again," Dean said. He folded the paper and dropped it on the floor beside him. "A frank discussion with...Dad, I think."

"Oh." Sam breathed. Still hallucinating then.

"This would be a good time to drink some water. It could be a few hours before you ...come back again."

Sam frowned. Come back again? Where had he been? No, on second thoughts. He knew what he meant.

"And you've been here for all of it?"

"Said I would, didn't I?" Dean pushed his hands under his legs. A slight angle to his head.

"I'm sorry - "

"Don't," Dean simply replied. "Just get through this, without killing yourself...or me."

Sam tried to sit up, his right elbow scraping against the rough blanket on the bed. He blinked hard at Dean, trying to focus on his brother's form.

"I...I didn't attack you did I?"

A gentle shake of his head. There were no words to describe what he had witnessed. Instead, he motioned towards a bottle of water on the floor by the bed. Sam reached down and greedily sucked in the contents of the bottle. It spread like a frost down his neck and chest. It felt good. He closed his eyes and pulled in a cleansing breath. From the wall he could hear Dean shifting on the floor. How many hours? How many days had it been? He lifted his head to ask.

And there was Alastair - standing on Dean's neck. Blood over his head and face. Eyes bulging with the pressure. Sam jolted into action. He was off the bed and facing Alastair's smug, sniggering features yet again.

* * * * * *

Dean flinched at the sudden movement. Wide eyed, he watched Sam square up to the wall. Hate and rage mutating his features – his muscles tensing with every breath. Another hallucination.

He made a mental note, like Bobby had told him too, and glanced at his watch.

"Check your watch each time he hallucinates. It's the only way you'll be able to tell he's over the worst. It's like child birth, only in reverse," he'd added. Dean remembered scoffing lightly at the last part. But in his mind he knew what Bobby had meant.

At the start, Sam had enjoyed five whole hours of blissful rest , before the first hallucination had crept upon them both. The first one had lasted only twenty minutes. Give or take. But then they'd increased at an alarming rate. So much so that Dean had found it difficult to actually tell the difference.

In this agreed self confinement, he'd watched his brother cowering on the floor, his knees scraping the concrete to bury himself further into the wall. He'd watched him screaming at the ceiling fan, trying to catch something...someone up there. He'd suffered his anguished sobs as he leaned against the door, begging to be released. He'd shouted himself hoarse trying to orientate Sam to time and place. It was no use, though. He didn't hear him. And he definitely didn't see him. Only the vision that abused his senses. That all consuming hallucination.

But, things were looking up. He'd come back to him. It was such a relief to be able to see him. His Sam. A few words. A stolen moment before...

"Get off him!" he screamed. A jab at the wall made Dean wince and he looked away. Another and another before Sam had broken through the hallucination and succumbed to the physical pain. He staggered back and aimed a kick at his imaginary foe instead. He stumbled and fell.

* * * * * * * * *

When Sam opened his eyes...he was back in the panic room again.

Good God, what was he doing back here? Some kind of nightmare? Some freakish time loop thing...? He licked his lips in an attempt to encourage moisture into his mouth.

He was on the floor. The concrete cool against his back. Someone was wrapping his hands. Someone who worked quickly but gently. He lifted his head. And there was Dean. His features were coarsed with exhaustion and worry. He focussed on his task, his eyes darted up to Sam's face.

"Hey," he murmered. "Just trying to fix your hands before...never mind."

"When's your next break?" The bandages felt firm against his aching knuckles.

"No breaks," Dean said. "We'll stick to the plan." He turned and threw a half bandage towards an opened bag beside the door. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and down his face and flashed a sudden smile at Sam – aware that he was being watched. He offered a hand and then, realising his mistake, he bunched Sam's shirt into his fists and moved him into a sitting position. And then, with a sudden frown – Dean pulled him into a gentle hug.

"It's getting better, Sam," he whispered, hope in his voice. Sam raised his bandaged hands and hugged him back. He relaxed his head onto Dean's shoulder for a beat, the body contact such a welcomed comfort to him.

And then from the corner of his vision – Gordon Walker raised his gun...

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**Reviews appreciated, as always**.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 **

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"Dean, Dean...Dean," Gordon shook his head as he spoke. He stood strong. Powerful. Smug.

Sam snapped his eyes shut. His brother pulled back from him and studied his face.

"What is it?"

"It's Gordon..." A frightened, small voice. Like a child. Dean grasped his shoulders.

"He's not here – keep your eyes shut!" A determined tone designed to convince. To keep him in the here and now.

"I gotta stop him, you know," Gordon began. "'Cos as much as I like your brother...he's a persistent pain my ass when it comes to killing you, Sammy."

Sam pressed his wrists against his ears. His knees hitched up – head down – eyes closed. With dread, Dean watched him shuffle away from him.

"Concentrate on my voice, Sam! Keep listening to my voice, my words, 'cos what I say is real, and it's here and it's happening..."

"...And you and I both know he's wasting his time, don't we," Gordon's voice seemed to boom above Dean's which had already degraded into a garbled 'blah' in the background.

"Nice touch, though."

Sam opened his eyes and glanced up. Gordon had his shotgun by the muzzle and was swinging it with effort – his focus on the back of Dean's head. Sam hurtled forward throwing himself into Gordon's legs – toppling him over and wrestling him down. Gordon was quick. He slammed one, two head butts into Sam's face – his hand's heavy around his neck – making Sam's veins swell with the pressure.

"Such filthy animals...like you...should never... be allowed to live!," he hissed through bloodied teeth. His entire weight on Sam's abdomen, he lifted up Sam's head and slammed it hard against the concrete...

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Sam opened his eyes. The panic room, again.

The ceiling fan turned lazily.

Still here then.

He sighed – and lifted up a bandaged hand and focussed on it. Spots of blood signalling further boxing matches and a gentle unravelling. Much like himself, he mused bitterly.

He slid his head around. And there was Dean.

"How long?" Sam rasped. Screaming. He must have been screaming again.

"Not long." The quiet reply. He leaned up against the huge iron door. An apathetic picking of some dried paint on the handle made Dean notice the dried blood still under his finger nails.

After Sam had smacked his head against the concrete floor – the blood just kept on coming. Heads were always well supplied with blood, but this was biblical proportions and it had scared him. Once the bleeding had stopped, he'd referred to the small notebook he'd kept to measure the frequency of Sam's attacks.

That had been four hours ago.

He approached the bed and sat on the edge. Sam licked his lips.

"And you think it's getting better?"

"A tad optimistic," Dean conceded. He glanced at his watch. "But, it has been four hours since the last one." He bent down and gently shook a bottle of water within Sam's line of sight. He unscrewed the top and handed it over. Sam emptied it in a few hungry gulps and rested the bottle on his chest. The shadows from the ceiling fan fell onto them both, caressing them gently in the shared silence.

"If I'd known..." Sam said softly. "I would never have...we could have - "

"- What?" Dean cut in. A flash of irritation. "We could have joined forces and killed Lillith together? No matter what happened we were in a lose, lose situation. Turned out you only did what everyone wanted."

"Everyone?"

"Yeah. Even the angels. " Dean admitted. He leaned forward, elbows on knees and dry scrubbed his face. His utter exhaustion seeped from him it seemed, transferring into Sam's bones. His eyes suddenly heavy, he struggled to stay awake.

"I don't want to go back," he said. The tone of vulnerability in the statement made Dean turn to look at him.

"Then stay."

"I can't stop it...they just appear and it never ends."

"Then we'll wait until it does. I know it doesn't feel like it, but they're coming less frequent...less violent."

"Run away." It wasn't an order, it was a request. And it made Dean frown and look away. He stood up and paced the confines of the panic room once more. Sam followed him with heavy eyes.

The continuing silence and the repetitive movement of the shadows pulled at Sam's eyelids and he felt himself sliding again. What now? And would he ever come back...?

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"Sam?"

Ah. Another hallucination. But he was ready.

She was here. Sitting on the edge of his bed. Looking down at him.

He quietly congratulated himself on his foresight. All the things he wanted to say carefully stacked up in his troubled mind.

"Jess" How long had it been since he'd uttered that name? He couldn't remember. Her beauty remained though. As fresh and as clear as the last day he'd seen her, kissing him goodbye and waving at the window.

"It's gone, you know." She said with a smile.

"What?"

"The demon blood. It's over. You're clean."

He'd flashed a smile at her words, and lifted a hand to her face. She leant into it and kissed his hand.

"I miss you," he whispered. The scent of her filled his memories once more.

"I know." Her hair fell against his arm. "But you need to leave here now. Dean's been waiting all this time for you to come back. And...you have to get away."

Her smile faded along with the hopes he had of being able to talk to her. She stood up from the bed. She moved away. She was leaving.

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"I'm sorry...," he called after her...her image finally fading into sprinkles of nothing.

"I know." Dean answered softly.

THE END


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